


do you wear your heart on your sleeve?

by thelabours



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, gratuitous usage of the word 'moonlight', if you squint really hard you'll see canon divergence i suggest you don't do that D:, it's a little angst ngl, it's all good though, there is some crying, wait is that a spoiler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 05:39:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10483284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelabours/pseuds/thelabours
Summary: in which shirabu learns about himself and semi eita, and about stars and feelings and volleyball.or, the Moonlight Sonata in C-sharp minor.





	

Some boys are made out of moonlight, Shirabu thinks, the first time he sees Semi Eita. He does not know his name yet, but he wants to find out. Two boys head the volleyball club orientation, a boy with tawny brown hair and a taller boy with silver hair, tips dyed blue like the ink uses to do his homework.

Shirabu learns that the tawny haired boy is the captain of the team, the silver boy is a second-year setter. He observes him as the silver boy looks on intensely, in a way that makes him seem ethereal, unapproachable, but pulling him in like the light of a fire to a moth. When his gaze catches Shirabu’s own, he feels like curling up on himself, but Shirabu has always been good at not wearing his heart on his sleeve and holds the silver boy’s gaze. The silver boy smiles a small smile in his direction and Shirabu feels special in a way that will spell disaster later.

Shirabu feels numb with delight when he carves his way into the heart of the volleyball team, _his_ volleyball team. His middle school self, he knows, would be proud of him. He sees the tawny haired boy and his tall blonde vice-captain graduate, and he sees the rise of a new era where _Ushijima Wakatoshi_ is their captain. He learns the name of the silver-haired boy, with sharp sets (which pull at the strings of his heart a little because _he_ used to set like that) and thunderous serves, so controlled, so forceful. He stands in awe of Semi Eita, but realises that Semi, while beautiful and powerful, was as human as the rest of them, if prone to irascible outbursts.

Which is probably why Washijou-san calls them to his office one day, at the beginning of Shirabu’s second year and tells them the change of plans on the team. Semi, now no longer the starting setter on the team, stares straight ahead as Washijou gives the position to Shirabu, who rejoices on the inside, too caught up to notice the stiff nod Semi shoots him before walking away, hands clutching his face.

The year cycles through the seasons just as Semi passes through his emotions, angry like the summer heat, his stares prickly and hot and probing; indifference to the point where even Shirabu, dense as he is, notices; acceptance falling from his lips like the gentle wind plucks the red autumn leaves from the treetops and lays them to rest on the ground, where Shirabu, who now thinks highly of himself, acknowledges with a nod of his head and a “yes senpai” but never puts to use.

The Interhigh Preliminaries loom over the horizon and Shirabu throws himself into practice and sets forth on his journey to hone his skill against the whetstone named Shiratorizawa. They train and train and train until none of them can feel their palms and their knees quake for mercy. They win against Aoba Jousai almost effortlessly, their captain giving Ushijima a hard look as they shake hands at the end of the match.

Shirabu’s body aches when he gets back to his dorm, but his mind is disquiet, his thoughts scattered around his mind like birthday balloons the day after. He is glad to have won but he has realised Shiratorizawa revels in victory so often, it has become second nature to triumph, an eagle at the top of the food chain. He wonders if it was always so easy to get used to victories. It makes him think of Semi, suddenly, if he was used to it too, if the victories are a comfort, knowing his team wins no matter what, or whether each conquest stings a little when he acknowledges that he plays no part in it.

The thought is discomforting, disconcerting, it makes him sit up on his bed too quickly, his head spinning. He looks out at the inky sky and decides to step out. It goes against school rules to step out after curfew but Shirabu hopes no one will miss him for a few minutes.

He makes his way to the amphitheatre where, in the spring term, the drama club hosts their plays. It is a sunken area in the field, the sky just a turn of the head away. He is glad he lives in the countryside, far enough from the city lights to spot the stars. He doesn’t have names for them, but he is content to watch them, twinkling millions of miles away from him, drawing him away from his worries and plunging him into a reverie, his mind a blank canvas, a welcome change of pace from his routine.

His footsteps are soft and muffled by the grass when he sees someone there already. By the way moonlight shines on him, Shirabu can tell it is Semi Eita and his ridiculously pretty hair. He is hesitant and almost turns back when Semi’s gaze falls on him. A moment of paralysis passes before Semi beckons him to join him. Shirabu sits with his knees pulled up to his chest, and turns to look at Semi. 

It’s strange to see Semi without his signature frown, an austere look that has made home on his face in the last year. Shirabu hasn’t noticed much but he can’t help but compare this look to the one he saw in his first year. The dyed tips are different, too, ash blending into his light blond hair.

Semi notices his stare and raises an eyebrow at him, unwilling to break the idyllic peace where every breath preludes to the next moment.

“You changed the colour” Shirabu blurts, gesturing vaguely at his hair, for lack of anything better to say.

Semi turns away and doesn’t say anything and Shirabu is afraid for a second that he has offended his upperclassman. Semi stays hunched over for a few moments before bursting out laughing. 

“Thank you for noticing, after, like, half a year,” he snickers out.

“Oh. I didn’t realise. It looks…nice” Shirabu said, at a loss for words. He always seemed to be at a loss for words when it came to Semi. Except when hey butted heads at practice. Shirabu wrinkles his nose at that. He wouldn’t voice it, but arguing with Semi seemed better than not talking to Semi at all. And Shirabu wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve.

A star darts across the sky and Semi says, “hey, look. Make a wish.” And Shirabu thinks of all the things he could wish for—to the best setter for Ushijima-san, a good grade on the essay due tomorrow, a new book he’s had his eye on for a while—but his mind flashes images of Semi’s smile and Shirabu can’t really disagree with his brain.

The adrenaline pumping through him lulled to serenity under the stars. Without knowing how or why his head dipped of its own accord onto Semi’s shoulder where his eyes traced constellations with light freckles. He may have been really tired so the smile he sees on Semi’s face might have been an illusion.

How he wakes up the next day in his own bed is beyond him but he suspects Semi has a hand in it. He sees him at practice that evening and nods to him. They don’t mention last night, they don’t have a chance to because an argument begins and evolves into a hurricane. Semi points out a meaningless mistake and Shirabu snarks right back. Last night, they think, was the calm before the storm. Shirabu is lost in the tides of anger and Semi can barely hold his ground in the face of rage. Washijou-san breaks it up and scolds them soundly for the interruption.

(They do not speak after that)

(They do not look at each other after that)

And if Semi is the first one to leave the changing room, with Tendou close at his heels, Shirabu doesn’t care. 

(At all)

(He does, though, and it hurts. He wishes it wouldn’t)

The weeks after pass in a similar fashion, the boys attend practice and only talk when the absolutely have to. Shirabu notices Semi’s frown lines increasing and all he wants to do is go up to him and smooth them out. A yawning chasm cracks open his chest slowly, hurting enough to make his breaths laboured, but not worthwhile enough to mention to pay attention to. His eyes slide towards Semi when he is in the vicinity and his insides are awash in the lovely melodies of pastel pinks and violets before they turn dark and smoulder when remembers their current relationship. The colours burn when he catches Semi’s gaze and earns himself not even a scowl, a blank look, worse than anything ever said his way. 

(Shirabu realises it may be because it breaks his heart)

(He wouldn’t ever tell anyone, though, because he knows he’s thinking with his heart rather than his head)

(and he hates it he hates it he hates it)

(and hates himself for hating Semi. For hurting Semi)

Shirabu’s only solace is volleyball. He tosses and sets and serves and receives in preparation for the spring tournament. He plays hard and tires himself out and his bed feels like the last safe place.

The day of the tournament arrives and the breeze through their matches. Shirabu supposes they’ll play Aoba Jousai again, a repetitive action that tires Shirabu when he thinks about it. While changing, he overhears Ushijima talking about tomorrow’s match and a _Hinata Shouyou_ to Tendou and Semi. Tendou looks unfazed, a sly grin gracing his face, while Semi looks deep in thought and tells them not to underestimate this boy. Shirabu scoffs involuntarily and the three turn to him. Shirabu scrambles to apologise when Semi’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before narrowing to glint dangerously. He opens his mouth to say something before Tendou latches on to his arm and drags him to the bus, yelling excuses.

* * *

They lose the next day. To a no name team that was brilliant a few years ago. It feels painfully unfair, even more so when Shirabu remembers that it’s the third years’ last match. A surge of emotion builds up in his chest, climbing up to his throat and he has a hard time swallowing it down. He doesn’t cry when Ushijima gives his speech, though he knows he is the next to bear the responsibility of captainship now. He doesn’t cry when Goshiki bursts into tears or when Kawanishi discreetly rubs his eyes.

He doesn’t cry in front of _anyone_. 

The tears come slowly when he is back in bed, hands sore from a hundred serves and heart sore from the loss. Once the tears start, they don’t stop and Shirabu has a hard time not waking his roommate up. In the spur of the moment, he darts out and his feet take him to the amphitheatre.

He sees someone sitting there already, looking up at the stars. Even in the lack of moonlight, Shirabu can tell who it is. His feet are reluctant to move when Semi’s gaze slides to him. A moment of paralysis passes and Shirabu shivers at the déjà vu. Semi beckons him over and Shirabu takes a seat next to him, pulling his legs up to his chest. The stars are particularly bright tonight but all Shirabu can think about is how this is the perfect chance to say something, _anything_ —

“You played well today.” Shirabu takes a second to process Semi’s words. He swallows hard and nods. 

“Thank you, senpai. You did, too.”

Semi snorts at that. “Your conversation skills suck.”

“Yours aren’t any better!” Shirabu hadn’t meant to say that but it just erupted and he wants to take it back when Semi looks right at him, his face completely blank. 

“You really do suck at conversations,” he snorts.

Shirabu just nods and returns the look, marvelling at how soft Semi’s hair looked, at how when he served, his muscles rippled and the force behind the swing of his hand mesmerised Shirabu every time he saw it, the same hand that now scratched the back of his neck.

They spend a couple of seconds looking at each other, close enough that Shirabu can see the light freckles on Semi’s nose, the faint blue under the ash of his dyed tips and the chapped skin peeling off his lips. Shirabu thinks of how some boys are made of moonlight, how they look ethereal and unapproachable, but so _so_ human and steal your heart to make it theirs, carve recesses into your body and make themselves at home in it. It strikes him with frightening force that he might _love_ Semi and the very real chance that Semi might not reciprocate. He is struck by how the epiphany flies through his mind and he wants to say something even though Semi is right, he does suck at conversations. He really wants to cry, even tough he prides himself on not wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Semi seems like he’s holding his breath, he sounds almost out of breath when he says, “Shirabu, I—“

“Stop it, senpai. Just…please. Stop it.”

“Stop…?” Semi’s brows scrunch up, and Shirabu wants to smooth out the wrinkles and he does (later, he will blame the pulse of the night and shock after the match for his actions). Semi’s hand catches his own, fingers interwining and Shirabu says, “Please. I’m…not good at this.”

“I know, I’ve experienced that first-hand.”

He doesn’t let go, and they both look up to the sky. Semi whispers out the constellations, guiding Shirabu’s finger from pinhole of light to another, but Shirabu’s eyes stray to Semi’s bare shoulder, and rests his head. He doesn’t realise when he started crying, the soft tears slide down his face. Semi gently wipes the tears away and cups Shirabu’s cheek.

“Semi-san.” Shirabu hiccups.

Semi waits. He is almost sure what comes next, but he waits.

“I like you.”

(Semi waits)

“I…that night, I wished for you. I thought of you and your ridiculous hair and your smile and…it sounds insincere because of all those things I said…” Shirabu wipes his eyes, suddenly unsure how to continue.

“I wished for you, too, with your ridiculous hair and your smile.”

Shirabu’s eyes snap up to meet Semi’s, disbelieving, the abyss in his chest closing up, supernovae erupting with echoes of a love song he doesn’t quite know the lyrics to.

(Yet).

Shirabu doesn’t have anything to say, his ears burn bright red and he hides his face in Semi’s shoulder, listening to, feeling Semi’s laughter, clear and silken as the language of stars, an arm wrapped around him, the same arm that scored today, hand resting his shoulder, the same hand that served a hundred serves across the net, for the last time.

(He decides that no shooting star is worthy of having been wished upon for Semi)

And if he kisses Semi, he blames it on the pulse of the night and the serendipitous surge of feeling he gets, the kind of feeling, the euphoria that makes you think you’ve _won_ something.

And if Semi kisses back, he blames it on Shirabu’s long fingers and his drive to achieve what he could not and the infinite infinitesimal ineffable things he can’t express with words alone.

The universe is kind to them today, and they will be grateful for it, but for now, they are just two boys under a sky full of stars, who wear their hearts on their sleeves, for the other’s eyes to read.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so the "silken language of the stars" bit is from a poem called 'a walk by moonlight' by henry derozio 
> 
> leave a comment if you liked it (aka Validate me)
> 
> come yell into the Voi with me @iceandbrimstone on tumblr


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